The King's Key (9 page)

‘Death Ball is not an approved school sport,' Mr Tribble clarified.

‘What about you, Whisker?' the Captain asked. ‘Did the circus have an amateur team?'

‘We, err … played a couple of times in the big top,' Whisker replied hesitantly. ‘But it was touch, not tackle.'

‘Touch Ball!' Horace exclaimed. ‘That disgraceful game should be outlawed. You're playing in the big league now. It's rough and tumble with the big boys.'

‘And girls!' Ruby snapped. ‘Just because your precious sisters never played …'

‘Ruby, please,' the Captain broke in. ‘We're on the same team, remember? Save your aggression for the game – preferably for tackling the opposition.'

Ruby scowled. ‘I hope that spoilt little Princess is playing. She won't stop staring at my eye patch.'

‘That's the spirit,' the Captain smiled. ‘A couple of good grapple tackles should rattle their game plan.'

Whisker felt ill. He'd escaped plenty of fights before, but it appeared he was stepping into the middle of a full-blown brawl. His tail began to tremble.

‘First game jitters,' Horace whispered. ‘We all get them. Don't worry, with a few matches under your belt, you'll be a pro. Death Ball is a Pirate Cup sport, so consider this game a training run for the big event.'

Whisker thought playing for his life was the big event.

‘What about positions?' the Captain asked. ‘We need a striker, a goal keeper, a centre, two wingers and a reserve. I believe our most dynamic player is Ruby. So I nominate her for centre.'

Ruby nodded. No one protested.

The Captain continued, ‘On the wing, we require speed and agility, but not necessarily size. Horace and Eaton would be ideal candidates.'

Horace nodded his acceptance. Eaton rolled into a ball and let out a pained squeak.

‘Eaton's not the sporty type,' Mr Tribble confessed. ‘And neither am I, for that matter. Perhaps we could interchange as required?'

The Captain let out a long sigh. ‘Very well. But we still need a striker and a goal keeper.'

‘You're the best striker in the crew, Uncle,' Ruby pointed out, ‘and seeing as Fred's not here, Whisker would make an effective keeper with his, err … active tail.'

Whisker knew Ruby was paying him a compliment, so he responded with a half-smile.

‘All agreed,' the Captain said. ‘We have a team.'

‘What about Smudge?' Horace gasped. ‘We've totally forgotten about Smudge. He must still be in the pot.'

Horace rushed over to the pottery pot and tried to remove the lid with his toes. In the process, he knocked the vessel over and it shattered on the ground. Smudge clambered out of the rubble in a terrible rage and flew straight at Horace's shirt.

‘Ouch! Aarh!' Horace cried. ‘It hurts! It tickles! Stop it, Smudge. It wasn't me. The monkeys did it.'

Smudge leapt out of Horace's shirt and zoomed towards the nearest monkey.

‘Smudge, no!' the Captain bellowed. ‘Come back here before you're squashed like a slug.'

Reluctantly, Smudge flew back to the Pie Rats and angrily perched on the rubber ball.

‘Listen, Smudge,' Horace whispered. ‘Are you strong enough to lift this ball?'

Smudge gripped the ball with six limbs and furiously beat his wings. The ball didn't budge. The buzz of wings grew louder as Smudge tried harder but the ball remained motionless. Monkeys began to point and laugh.

‘Great gym-junkies!' the King exclaimed, stepping onto the field. ‘What a ridiculous sight. Your filthy fly will never lift that ball. It's three times his puny size.'

‘Smudge isn't puny,' Horace said, sticking up for him. ‘He's extremely big for a fly. And it's not his fault your ball's above regulation weight.'

‘Fiddlesticks!' the King cried. ‘I made that ball myself.'

Smudge raised his tiny fists at the King and the King's eyes widened. ‘Golly gosh! If your miniscule mascot wants a paw pounding that badly, he can join your team as a second reserve. He won't make an iota of difference to your piddly score line.'

‘Untie us,' Horace demanded, ‘and we'll find out.'

Sir Mecks untied the prisoners and the Pie Rats stretched their aching paws. Straightening his crown, King Marvownion proceeded to explain the rules.

‘Cowardly captives, the rules of Due-Esda are as follows: One point is scored when the ball is kicked or hit under the crossbar between two trees. The ball may be carried, thrown, kicked or passed from one side of the field to the other. It must not be hidden down one's trousers. I personally detest anyone wearing trousers, with of course the exception of baboons who have unsightly red bottoms…'

‘Stick to the topic,' cried a voice from the crowd.

‘What, what?' the King shot back. ‘You're sick of the tropics? How rude! If you dislike the jungle that much, you can go and sit in an igloo. Your trouser-less bottom will look redder than a baboon's backside in less than a week, guaranteed!'

There was a dull murmur from the crowd and the King returned to the rules. ‘A player possessing the ball may be tackled, tripped or wrestled until they release the ball. Players not involved in a tackle are limited to shoulder contact only. If the ball goes out of bounds, the crowd has the right to throw it to their favourite player …'

‘That won't be me,' Horace droned.

‘Don't interrupt,' the King snapped. ‘Where was I? Oh, yes. The ball is bounced in the centre circle at the beginning of each half and after each goal. Teams change directions at half-time.'

King Marvownion took a short stick and stuck it in the ground. Using his finger, he scratched four close lines from the base of the stick.

‘This is a sundial,' he said proudly. ‘I invented it. As the sun rotates around my marvellous kingdom, the shadow of the stick magically moves.'

Mr Tribble coughed awkwardly.

The King glared at him and carried on, ‘When the shadow reaches the first line, the game begins. When it reaches the second line, we all stop for a cup of jungle tea. When it reaches the third line, the second half excitement gets under way. And when it reaches the fourth line, the game is over and you all lose your heads. Any questions? No? Let the countdown begin.'

As the shadow of the stick crept towards the first line, the Pie Rats gathered in a huddle to discuss last-minute tactics. Whisker glanced over his shoulder to see the opposition walking onto the field. Predictably, the monkey's team consisted of the royal family plus Sir Mecks and Jester Mimp. A tribe member, whose name slipped Whisker's mind, acted as the referee and carried a short panpipe for his whistle.

‘What's the game plan?' Horace whispered.

‘We win,' Ruby said bluntly. ‘And then we get out of this mad house.'

‘Err, okay,' Horace said. ‘Anything more specific?'

‘Defence,' the Captain stated. ‘We keep their goals to a minimum in the first twenty minutes while we discover their defensive weaknesses …'

‘We won't have twenty minutes,' Mr Tribble said frantically. ‘Judging by the lines on the sundial, each half will be no longer than six or seven minutes.'

‘Rotten pies to scurvy sundials,' Horace groaned.

‘A short game's a survivor's game,' the Captain said calmly. ‘Remember, defence is the key.'

As the panpipe blew for the start of the match, Whisker knew defence meant one thing: goalkeeping. He flexed his tail, loosened his limbs and prepared to defend to the death.

The ball bounced in the centre circle and Ruby leapt high into the air – Princess Mayenya leapt even higher. Gracefully, she plucked the ball from the sky and passed it to her brother on the wing.

Prince Marcabio caught the ball with one paw, using his free paw to defend against Horace. In a futile attempt to tackle the Prince, Horace threw himself, hook first, at Marcabio's legs. Deftly, Marcabio sidestepped to his left, leaving Horace clutching at blades of grass.

Tucking the ball securely under his arm, Prince Marcabio sprinted down the boundary line, sparking a Mexican wave from the crowd. Ruby tried to intercept him before he reached the forward pocket, but Princess Mayenya knocked her flying with a shoulder charge.

In the moment it took Ruby to recover, Marcabio paw-passed the ball to the King who bounce-passed the ball to the Queen via Mr Tribble's head. Mr Tribble somersaulted over the sideline and his glasses spun into the crowd. The crowd roared with laughter and threw him back into play without his glasses.

The frantic pace continued.

Prince Marcabio crossed infield to receive a long overhead pass from the Queen. He hastily tossed the ball into the air and prepared to slam it with his paw.

Scrambling off his wing, Horace made a desperate lunge for the Prince and ankle-tapped his left foot with his hook. Marcabio stumbled forward, missed the ball completely, and crashed to the ground. Seizing his opportunity, Whisker scooped up the ball while the Prince was still down.

‘Over here,' Ruby shouted, breaking away from Mayenya on the right wing.

Whisker hurdled over Marcabio and kicked the ball as hard as he could in Ruby's direction. His foot stung as it made contact with the hard rubber but the impact sent the ball racing towards its target.

Ruby threw herself into the air, raising her paws to take the mark. But before she could secure the ball, Mayenya leapt over her head, pounding the ball into the crowd.

With an ecstatic chant of ‘Mayenya! Mayenya!' the monkeys threw the ball back to the Princess. Revelling in the attention, she danced around Ruby, dummied to the King and then flick-passed the ball to Sir Mecks. Sir Mecks caught the ball in the centre of the field and charged, unmarked, towards Whisker's goal.

Turning defence into attack, Whisker sprinted infield to tackle the knight before he could strike. Sir Mecks attempted a rushed kick for goal but sent the ball hurtling into Whisker's chest.

Whisker tumbled backwards, clutching at the ball with his paws, and skidded across the grass. Startled, he looked up to see the Queen bearing down on him. With a powerful sweep of her leg, she kicked the ball straight out of his arms.

There was a triumphant roar from the crowd as the ball soared majestically through the goal posts.

Feeling like an oversized golf tee, Whisker thumped the ground in frustration.

‘One-nil,' the referee cried.

‘Substitute,' Mr Tribble squealed, staggering around blindly.

Eaton reluctantly came off the bench and took his place on the wing while Mr Tribble searched for his glasses in the crowd. Whisker brushed himself off and prepared for the next onslaught.

The panpipe whistled for the second bounce up. The monkeys won possession and went on the attack. Desperately, the Pie Rats defended their line.

Whisker found it hard enough staying on his feet with all the barging and charging, let alone attempting to steal the ball. When the half-time whistle sounded minutes later, he wondered how they hadn't conceded a second goal.

‘Great galaxies of gas!' the King exclaimed, as the teams walked from the field. ‘Is it cup-of-tea time already? Gracious! I haven't knocked anyone unconscious yet.'

‘Chin up, crew,' the Captain encouraged, removing a strand of monkey hair from his jungle tea. ‘At least we've discovered their weakness.'

‘What weakness?' Horace spluttered, spraying tea all over the Captain's jacket. ‘They're unstoppable. We touched the ball three times in the entire first half and one of those was Mr Tribble's head.'

The Captain wiped the sticky liquid from his clothes and lowered his voice. ‘I admit we need to work on our possession, but hear me out. The monkeys left their goal unattended the whole time we were on the field. One long-range kick is all we need to square things up.'

‘If we ever get the ball,' Horace muttered.

Last Rat Standing

The teams assembled on the field for the second half with the ecstatic chants of ‘Marmosets! Marmosets! No one beats a marmoset,' echoing through the clearing.

Queen Marmalade insisted she finish her cup of jungle tea at a leisurely pace, and was replaced by Jester Mimp on the wing. Smudge and Mr Tribble squirmed awkwardly beside her on the reserve bench.

The Pie Rats positioned themselves in a tight defensive structure within their own half. The monkeys prepared to attack and left their goal unguarded. The panpipe blew, the ball bounced, the crowd roared and the carnage began.

The Pie Rats did their best to repel the monkeys, tackling and tussling to the best of their ability. Even Eaton played like a desperate mouse with six-and-a-half minutes left to live. But as hard as they tried, they couldn't get that one clean kick away.

As the minutes wore down, the tension rose.

With a cheer from the crowd, Prince Marcabio caught the ball deep in the forward corner. He stepped around Horace, barged through Eaton and centred himself for a scoring shot.